


Numbers

by aPaperCupCut



Series: A Series of Adjustments [2]
Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: All characters - Freeform, Anachronisms galore, Angst because of course, Asocial type stuff?, Children, Claustrophobia kinda, Dead siblings? Dead siblings., Dramatic Irony, Gen, Vague child neglect? Yes we have that, ill add tags as i go
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-28
Updated: 2017-02-03
Packaged: 2018-09-20 08:58:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 2,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9483842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aPaperCupCut/pseuds/aPaperCupCut
Summary: A series of unconnected 100 word or less ficlets.Slightly connected to Many Days.Includes children, shadows remarkably similar to said children, and hopefully lots of humour.But honestly, you can never tell with these people.





	1. Radio

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little headcannon I have. Might be a little indulgent.

It was a thought run ragged, a thought worn into pearly smoothness, like a well aged sea shell.

 

It was a thought that would not leave him alone. It whispered to his fancies at night, distracting him during his waking hours. It was a stray hound, following slowly behind him, so close he could feel its hot breath against his heels.

 

He’d never been one to refuse temptation, to refuse his ever persistent curiosity and passion. It was unusual that he refused this of himself, despite its relative benign promises.

 

Then again, perhaps his colleague’s repetitive lectures had finally gotten through to him - perhaps he would leave things at rest now, and not kick sleeping dogs.

 

But leaving the vague theory alone was too much to ask of himself - he may be uncharacteristically averdant to its action, but he could not let it rest.

 

So what was it that caused him such… discomfort? The idea was fine - was more than just fine, actually - it was a perfectly reasonable thing to entertain.

 

His distraction was what finally let him let go of his strange doubts. Confused by his own broiling mind, he skipped several lectures of which he was a detrimental pivoting point. His carelessness led to a forced “vacation” - if one can call a forced period of inactivity a “vacation.”

 

Now alone with his harmless curiosity and living in his barren home (he tended to stay overnight at the university), he really didn’t have anything else to do.

  
His tinkering led to results, results which he had not thought interesting at first. After all, what was a strange little radio going to do? Speak to him? The idea was laughable.


	2. First days of first months

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This happens very soon after chapter... 3? I think it was chap 3 of Many Days.
> 
> Wilson had a difficult time adjusting.

They had been here for several weeks, and Wilson was exhausted.

 

In the beginning, when he had offered, he almost expected them to decline, and when they agreed, well, he was ecstatic.

 

Real human beings! With thoughts and conversations!

 

He had ignored his earlier doubts, and fought to keep his fears at bay.

 

So what if he had made a fool of himself? It was to be expected, and the woman - Willow was her name - had accepted his apology.

 

But even though it was clear they didn't care, he had to put up quite the fight to ignore his anxieties.

 

It was exhausting.

 

He tried to act as an exemplary host at the beginning of their stay, but now?

 

Now he was too tired to even give a morning greeting.

 

Camp life itself was easy - they kept out of his way and he stayed out of their business.

 

Sure, there were some duties that became one person's job and some that they shared, but the two groups - for they were two groups - remained rather distant.

 

Willow gathered food, Wilson cooked it, and Wendy kept the camp orderly and pests out.

 

Wilson, however, just couldn't take it.

 

The pressure from his all consuming worries, his constant distraction and resulting humiliation (he’d burned the food more than once), and just the presence of others - even if he knew they were friendly - constantly wore at him.

 

He grew ever short spoken and snappish, growing more and more evasive.

 

His behavior was embarrassing, not to mention stupid. Why couldn't he just deal with it, like a normal, functional, adult man?

 

But he couldn't.

 

And now, he had finally done it.

 

He wrung his hands. Wendy stared at him, but he did not look at her.

 

They were the only ones near the camp; Willow was out collecting rabbit traps.

 

He had said something - he couldn't even recall what it was now, just that it was beyond rude and senseless - and one thing had led to another.

 

They were stuck up in a tree now, having escaped several curious hounds.

 

He hadn't meant to yell. Not so loudly, at least.

 

But he had wanted some quiet - and Wendy had said she would go with Willow yesterday.

 

It wasn't his fault that she had surprised him.

 

But he could feel the weight of her gaze, and his gut clenched in guilt.

 

“If you wanted to be alone, you should've told me.”

 

Wilson squeezed his fingers and turned his head as far from her as he could. Her presence was cloyingly close. A rush of embarrassment nearly overwhelmed him before he shoved the impulse away.

 

“You can't ignore me forever. We've both noticed, Willow and I.”

 

He sucked in a breath through his teeth.

 

“You didn't know they were so close. I'm not blaming you.”

 

Wilson caved.

 

“I shouldn't have yelled at you. It was improper and rude; I'm supposed to be - ” Wilson cut himself off. No matter how unbalanced he felt currently, unloading his concerns onto a strange child was mad.

 

He chanced a glance at her when she didn't reply - when she didn't prode.

 

She stared back, her gaze still heavy but her expression carefully blank.

 

“I think the hounds are gone, Mr. Scientist.”

 

He jumped, nearly falling from his perch.

 

She ignored him, climbing smoothly down and heading to the camp without a backwards glance.

 

He watched her go.

 

No one had ever called him that before. And to think, she had only called him by his last name a short while ago - either she had found a mocking nickname for him or she was warming up to him.

  
He wasn't sure which was better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is this written ok? I'm never quite sure whether what I was trying to say got across...


	3. Did Wes speak too loudly? Or is he not hearing them?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wes deserves a little bit of an explanation.
> 
> I'll post the timeline soon, so you'll know soon.
> 
> All you need to know is that he was first. At least, he was first in a certain way.

Wes should have expected something this unfortunate.

 

He should have expected it, especially from here.

 

But he hadn't. Wes was complacent, was calm.

 

He regretted, oh God he regretted.

 

He couldn't remember how he got here. He didn't know where ‘here’ even was.

 

A spot of blood, a letter.

 

Vibration and twisting, a loss of balance and cool earth.

 

Nothing else.

 

Wandering, collecting food, fearfully hiding whenever his neck prickled.

 

Night was sickening, filled with muffled silence and lurking shadow.

 

Those first days were an ache to remember. They hurt, dark and leering.

 

And then he met the pigmen.

 

They were such strange, peculiar things - they disliked touch, disliked unfamiliarity, but seemed to have a curiosity for Wes.

 

Wes supposed they had never seen a human before.

 

They were happy to let him pick from their wild clusters of berries and let him stay in one of the empty homes, long since abandoned and cold.

 

Wes gave his utmost to return the favour - performing his best skits and cooking the best meals he could for them.

 

He didn't know their names. He'd tried telling them his own, but he couldn't tell for sure whether they knew.

 

Those days were strange and calm.

 

It was to be expected that something dreadful would happen.

 

Wes should have planned for it; the island was dangerous and even the pigmen, every full moon, were terrifying.

 

But he hadn't.

 

Wes didn't know where the fire had come from.

 

The house went up, choking smoke and burning debris.

 

Night blotted out the moon, the stars.

 

Wes, without a care, went running, panicking, into the shade’s embracing arms.

 

They tugged, curious and malicious, this way and that.

 

It seemed to last forever - It seemed to last only a moment.

 

They lost interest.

 

For what he was sure was an eternity, he lay in darkness, untouched. Oil passed over him, too uncaring to brush his skin.

 

Then, there was a flicker of curiosity - But it was nothing like he'd ever thought another being could experience.

 

Then he was grabbed, shoved, squeezed -

 

Into the Box.

 

His thoughts coiled, tight, around him, refusing to ease.

 

He cried, he screamed, he pounded worthless fists and hands against air.

 

Nothing would release him. Nothing was holding him.

 

Time was a feeling he lost.

 

Wes forgot his name, but only for awhile.

 

Wes forgot how to listen with his fingers, but only for awhile.

 

Wes forgot how to speak. He never recalled it.

 

Freedom was something not real, a dream he could only barely taste.

 

Things blurred. Nothing would clear, nothing made sense.

 

It was a dull, pathetic panic. The same kind that he knew had gotten him here.

 

The ghosts that lead him apologized. Or, he hoped they had.

  
He hoped things would sharpen soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had difficulty at the end.
> 
> Hopefully the flow isn't too disturbed by it.


	4. Childish behavior. How insipid.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wilson is an angst turd. Whether that is earned is questionable.

He was curled around his core, trying hard not to stare.

 

But….

 

They were right there! Standing there, chatting.

 

Wilson stared.

 

Not many people came out this way. They just didn't.

 

Wilson stared, hidden behind the tall iron fence.

 

Could he talk to them? They were only a bit older than him….

 

A hand snatched him away before he could call out.

 

A hiss between clenched teeth, the delicate hand gripping his arm tight and painful.

 

She ushered him back to his room.

 

Before she left, she sneered.

 

He turned to the window, tearing his mind away from her.

 

He hated this.

 

Wilson had complained so many times, to both his mother and his father, but apparently manhandling someone of his intellect was perfectly fine.

 

Well. It wasn't like he cared about the housekeepers.

 

The children below continued playing with their knick-knacks, unaffected by Wilson's life.

 

Oh, what he would give to be just the same….

 

But what nonsense. His place was here, receiving an excellent education, with a roof over his head, food in his belly, and housekeeping to clean up after him.

 

(But it didn't feel right)

 

Looking out the window, watching them play, was doing nothing for him.

 

Wilson scoffed, tried to convince himself of that fact, and went back to the writing and arithmetic he had been distracted from.

* * *

 

Days later, curled around his hands, wrapped up in cold blankets, trying to stifle the sound of his breathing, he thought again of those people.

 

He wondered if they ever thought of the same things he did.

 

He was sure everyone did. But did they, those outside this hollow shelter, feel it too?

 

What did they think of? Did they ever think of - of -

 

No. What a sappy, childish thought - Wilson, while he was not an adult, was fourteen. That was the age one grew up, not the age one regressed.

 

Wilson was overindulging, letting his mind run away, just like Mother always said.

 

He needed to stop, to not do that.

 

But this was only a moment.

 

So Wilson inhaled, and let his mind run away.

 

Was it bad that he wanted more?

 

Was he of any use to anyone?

 

Nobody knew he existed, except for the people who lived here.

 

At the end of his life, would anything he did mean anything?

 

If it didn't mean anything, was he a waste? A waste of his father's finances and his mother's care.

 

Wilson's moment was up. No more thinking.

 

Instead, he drove his mind to better matters, to things that mattered.

  
Like science. Science was important.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Funny, enough, I was having a night time slump when I thought up the idea for this.
> 
> Sadly, I was too late to put what I was actually thinking down, so this is a skewed, watered down version of what i was thinking about.


	5. Daydreaming is a waste of time.

The dreams didn't come until years later.

 

Wendy didn't care much by then.

 

Abby would've complained, she was sure.

 

She would've put up quite the fuss.

 

But Wendy didn't care by then, so it didn't matter whether Abby would've whined or not.

 

She was taking another break from school; her academics were good enough and her disposition dour enough for school staff to be relieved to see her go.

 

Days were spent in a haze of distant thought and reminiscing.

 

Nights were spent dreaming of useless companionship and strange promises.

 

She hadn't seen her uncle in years. Perhaps before the accident, perhaps before things changed. It didn't matter anyway.

 

He spoke to her of his brother, of his own dreams, and gave her little precious gems, little facets of Abby’s life she'd never seen, would never see.

 

She visited her sister's grave shortly after the dreams began.

 

At first, she didn't think she would do it - speaking to long dead people, to graves, was unusual. Was strange. Was eccentric.

 

Just like her uncle.

 

“Things haven't changed since you died.”

 

“Am I sad?”

 

“I don't think so. Just….”

 

“I'm bored. I'm tired.”

 

“I don't care anymore. And it….”

 

“I miss caring - about you, about our parents, about Uncle's disappearance.”

 

“He's visiting me, you know.”

 

“Everything seems like a waste. Nothing amuses me, nothing interests me, and everything is dull and dimwitted.”

 

“I can't stand it.”

 

* * *

 

 

She visited her sister only once a year.

 

This year, she thought, would be different.

 

It would be strange, like her uncle.

 

In her dreams, her uncle promised her excitement, promised her sister, promised her something more than the useless existence she slowly drowned in.

 

She accepted.

 

Anything would be better than this bone tearing boredom.

  
Besides, she didn't have anything better to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How did I do? 
> 
> Writing apathetic, mourning children is... weird, for lack of a better word.


	6. They're never lonely

He stared at the little creature, entranced.

 

He'd seen them before, but they'd never come this close before.

 

Close up, it was even more pretty than he'd thought.

 

He smiled down at it, watching it watch him.

 

He didn't know what type of spider it was, but it was big and brown and soft.

 

It had climbed onto his hand with no prompting, and a warm tingling sloshed pleasantly in his belly.

 

Outside, he could hear machines rumble and doors bang, separate but so very close by.

 

His mommy would not be home for a while longer; his daddy was, but he was sleeping again.

 

His belly rumbled.

 

He carefully put the spider on the coffee table, hurrying to the kitchen.

 

What should he have….?

 

Breakfast had been cold cereal, lunch was some toast….

 

So he'd have some crackers!

 

Smiling, he swept up his choice material, bringing it to the spider out in the den.

 

The spider, which was gone.

 

A familiar, cold feeling froze his insides.

 

Limbs heavy, he set down the crackers where his little friend had been. He sank into the red sofa behind him.

 

It was gone, just like his daddy had said.

 

He was too cold to eat.

 

It never seemed to get better.

 

Mommy said it would get better - she said school was just around the corner, that Daddy would get better soon, that she'd get a different job soon.

 

But it didn't.

 

He didn't think it would.

 

Daddy would always stay in bed, would always drink, would always sleep.

 

Mommy would always avoid home, would always come home dizzy, would always tell him it'd get better.

 

He would never go to school. The spiders would always leave.

 

He shuddered, awakening from an anxious half-sleep.

 

There was a man, standing across from him.

 

“It seems you are in a spot of trouble.”

 

Mommy said not to talk to strangers.

 

“My friends won't stay with me.”

 

He cringed, half expecting Mommy to storm through the front door.

 

“Ah, that is quite the trouble. Why do they leave?”

 

He tried hard not to sniffle, but his chest ached.

 

“I'm not important.”

 

“Well, I don't think that's the case.”

 

He stifled a chuckle.

 

“That's ‘cuz you don't know me.”

 

“Oh, I'm afraid I do. Why else would I be here?”

 

He looked up, suddenly nervous. But the man's face was dark with shadows, features distorted and expression unknowable.

 

The man gestured, inviting his palm to the boy.

 

“Why don't I show you? There are lots of people there, too; in fact, I am sure that some of them would love to be your friend.”

 

He bit his lip.

 

Daddy was asleep and Mommy was working  - he wouldn't be missed.

  
And he was pretty sure that this was going to be real fast. He'd be back in a jiffy.


End file.
